


These Foolish Things

by Acciofirewhiskey



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, F/M, Great Depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acciofirewhiskey/pseuds/Acciofirewhiskey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1931, and Francis Gold has planned for everything, including the Stock Market Crash, with his wife and son completely cared for, his life seems secure, but there's the one thing he didn't plan on: meeting Belle French.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1930s AU, for this prompt: Everyone is Storybrooke is struggling these days. Everyone but Mr. Gold and his family (Baelfire and Gold’s wife). Belle tries to make end meet by working in his speakeasy where she catches his eye and interest. After her father falls ill Gold comes to her with a proposition: She will become his mistress and in return she and her father will be well taken care of…
> 
> Title from the Billie Holiday song. Rating will go up.

“Good lord, Francis, you just _had_ to take your new toy out for a spin, didn’t you?”

 

Slowly, the man across the seat peers up from over the top of the business section in the day’s issue of the _Chicago Tribune._ He takes his time meticulously folding the pages and laying them across his lap. Finally, he looks up and answers, “Did you say something, dear?”

 

The blonde and albeit lovely woman shakes her head, “I knew your hearing was on the fritz.” She scoffs, “Looks like someone’s getting old.”

 

“Need I remind, Mathilde, that you and I are not that far apart in age.” He opens the paper back up, crossing one expertly tailored leg over the other, “Certainly not far enough to have you going on about my getting old without, that is, implying your own ever increasing age.”

 

His wife of near on twenty years laughs out an ugly and all too common sound, “Yeah, just old enough to sign the license and young enough to imagine myself in love.” She shakes her head, gesturing to his person. “Never,” Mathilde Gold née Carabosse turns, addressing the boy seated beside her, the couple’s only child, “ _never_ , Bay, fall in love aboard an ocean cruise liner. It’s at best a symptom of sea sickness, and,” she pauses, giving her husband a sharp look, “at worst a legal complication.”

 

Though he agrees with his wife’s sentiments, Mr. Gold growls, “For the love of God, Mal, give the boy a spot’a peace.”

 

He refers to their thirteen-year-old son, Bailey, who takes note of neither parent, reading a comic strip—though this does not deter the mother. ““Like father, like son,” Mathilde says, looking between the two men and their broadsheets. Shaking her head, she continues, “I just can’t understand why these serials are all the rage with children these days. Really, what’s all the hoopla about?”

 

He looks back from the paper—economy appeared to be as bad as yesterday, and President Hoover still as unlikely as ever to do anything about it, so no change, and Gold doubted it would take a turn for the better before the second quarterly reports in two months time. It appeared quite certain that 1931 would prove no better than the year previous.

 

And reading the business section from top to bottom certainly wouldn’t change it.

 

Setting the newssheet on the empty seat beside himself Francis Gold rises to his wife’s provocations, knowing that she’d go on with or without his participation either way. “I believe you were in the middle of saying something, or would you rather continue with your platitudes on disillusionment and chance gone by?” he asks, with mock sincerity.

 

“I _said_ , was it really necessary to take this thing out today, of all days?” She picks an imaginary piece of lint from the upholstery, “I would have much preferred taking the Packard.”

 

“As a matter of fact, I did.” He leans forward, bracing his forearms on his legs. “I’m leaving town on _your_ fool’s errand, so I had to make sure the payment is viable.” He gestures to the inside of the grand automobile, “Besides, Mal, I rather like it.”

 

She smirks, examining her perfectly sculpted nails, “What is it again?”

 

“Rolls Royce, one of the Phantoms.” He looks around, hardly addressing his wife, for he knew her to be hardly listening, “with more than a few custom alterations, if I’m not mistaken.” Out of the blue, Mal chuckles at her husband.

 

“What?” Gold asks.

 

“It’s simply that it all makes sense.”

 

“I don’t follow, dearie, you’ll have to be more specific.”

 

“It’s English, of _course_ you’d prefer it over the Packard,” she smirks, with her full lips, and Gold can’t help kick himself for falling for the cold beauty so many years ago, in a stupor of post-war euphoria and vanity unbecoming of a decorated soldier—he’d learned much in the past twenty years, including the good sense to separate love and stupidity.

 

However, speaking of automobiles reminded the former soldier turned entrepreneur. Ignoring the shrill voice across his seat, Mr. Gold taps a leather-gloved knuckle on the window separating the backseat from their driver.  The black hide squeals an appropriately grating noise throughout the car.

 

“Yes, Mr. Gold,” the driver asks, straining to turn his head, without looking away from the road filled with dumb-struck pedestrians.

 

“Take the next left—we’re better off going past the docks.” The docks by mid-morning were empty of the usual slew of day workers, looking for a simple day’s hire, gone to stand instead in the bread and soup lines. They’d garner enough slack-jawed stares today, to be sure. He raises a finger to the curtain, taking in the waifs, all agog at the well to-do going downtown, “if you’d be so kind.”

 

“Of course, Mr. Gold,” the driver replies simply. Dover was not a man given to excessive speech, making him Gold’s ideal employee.

 

“Honestly, Francis, let the man do his job—it’s not like you do any of the driving.”

 

Grumbling, Gold lets the curtain drop and looks to Mathilde; if she wanted a fight, he was more than happy to oblige, “Tell us, dear, is it just me or are you making a concerted effort at being disagreeable this morning?”

 

“No, but unlike you, it actually takes effort for me to be that way,” she shrugs, her fur coat rustling leisurely, “whereas with you it’s just par for the course.”

 

“ _Mama_ ,” the small voice beside his wife groans. Young Bailey Gold sits with his limp newspaper on his lap, looking too small and too pale, to his parents. He reads _Buck Rogers_ , a favorite, and Bay never missed an issue, Gold made sure of it—the least he could do for his son.

 

“Indeed, Bailey—don’t you think we ought not bicker around the boy?”

 

“You too, Papa,” the boy reproaches, with a frown that looks nothing like either of his parents, for it lacks their bitter edge. Gold swallows hard—he hadn’t meant to use his son as ammunition against the woman to which he found himself legally bound, but it had happened, it always happened.

 

They both found themselves hurling Bay’s name, and any other, against each other in their constant clashes. For not the first time, Francis Gold wonders if they fought to distract from the very real threat of losing the only thing they loved, if they screamed to keep from crying. Didn’t matter, intentions or otherwise, they shouldn’t do it, at least where the boy could hear.

 

Both parents look down in shame.

 

“Quite right—sorry, son,” Gold says.

 

“Mama’s sorry, baby,” Mal says, leaning down to kiss the boy on the head and take his pale hand into her own. The child nods, and returns to his comic. After he finishes the strip, Bay pushes open the window curtain, taking in the changing scenery, apartment flats giving way to industrial sites, the docks and the growing number of shanty-towns, as the car continued downtown. 

 

 “Papa,” the boy exclaims, with a surprising amount of energy. He points out the window, “Look at all of ‘em.”

 

“Hoovervilles,” Mrs. Gold, sighs. “They’re growing every day. Aren’t they, Francis?”

 

“Indeed,” he answers, taking in his wife’s tense expression. He thinks on allaying her fears, reminding her of their many, many assets, how he had insisted on diversifying their incomes and business ventures, so as to prepare them for what he’d predicted, for he’d seen it coming, the end of the Great War, the extravagance, the return to the gold standard.

 

However, he holds back. It was entirely Mathilde’s fault he had to leave town in the first place; let her stew.

 

“What’ll happen when it snows?” Bailey asks.

 

“We’re in the middle of a drought son—not to be worrying over that, just yet, Bay.” Gold pats his son’s good knee. “Never you worry.”

 

They arrive at the train station without further incident, and only three double-edge comments between them (one from him, two from Mal).

 

The Rolls Royce pulls up and parks before the entrance, a small crowd quickly growing around them while still giving the car a wide berth. The father turns from the window, sighing at the people, “You needn’t see me off son, it’s only for two weeks—maybe less.” Mrs. Gold chuckles, and Mr. Gold frowns up at her, “Something funny, Mal?”

 

“Just the idea that you’d come home early from a business trip, is all.”

 

He glares at the woman, and opens his mouth to remind her just exactly who paid for the clothes on her back, who kept her checkbook from overdrawing, when Bay says, “I’m going, Papa.” The boy speaks in a firmer tone than Gold ever expects the sickly boy to utter, but he nods—that’s the thing about the love the parents felt for their child, if Bay spoke, they obeyed without question.

 

He taps on the glass and the driver hurries around to collect the boy. With a strength Gold envies, the man picks up the crippled boy and carries him easily up the stairs leading into the train station. Malthide moves to slide out the car and follow her son, but Mr. Gold takes up his son’s cane and moves it across the seat, blocking her path. “Are you _trying_ to overtax him?”

 

She looks from the cane to the man. “Me?

 

“Yes, you, or have you already forgotten which of us had outstanding balances with a number of lawyers, dearie.”

 

“I already told you, It was just a consultation.”

 

“Yes, and one that cost me a pretty penny.” He bites back, referring to the divorce lawyers he’d caught her meeting with. “Much as I share your feelings, dear, we can’t, not the way _things_ are now,” Francis says, perfunctory and without emotion, the things to which he refers being their son’s condition.

 

As usual, Bailey ended any and all talk of divorce, too expensive, and they needed to save for his care, what’s more the boy needed both his mother and father—two households were certainly not conducive to giving the boy the best optimal care.

 

He leans back, removing his obstructing cane, and gesturing for his wife to exit the car first. “We can continue the discussion when I return, I’m sure. Just don’t let Zosowlski burn the whole enterprise to the ground before I return.” Gold refers to his business partner, Aleksander Zosowlski. The Polish émigré had a sharp eye and shrewd mind for deals, and the two had merged their businesses, shipping, largely textiles, early in Gold’s career. However, the man had a temper better fitted to ordering about difficult customs officers than overseeing a teetering empire, attempting to stay out of the red amidst an economic collapse. “Even if we can’t afford the divorce, we still have a son with polio to support, need I remind.”

 

“I can handle Zosowlski,” she says, confidently.

 

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” he says in a derisive tone.

 

Mal looks up, eyes sharp, “You’re so quick to point the finger, Francis, but think about this, will’ya: _you’re_ the one gone all the time.” She leans forward, staring up at him from under her painted eyelashes, “You know what he asked me the last time?”

 

Gold frowns; of course he remembers.

 

“Asked me, plain as day, ‘Is it my fault Papa’s gone so much?’” She chuckles.

 

“I didn’t plan this, Mathilde. You know that.” With his free hand he points an angry finger at her face, “Your country cousins are the ones that up and died and left you with a plot of land in the middle of bloody nowhere, that now is suddenly _my_ problem.”

 

“Yes, you’re right, Francis: it’s all my fault,” Mal shakes her head, “Everything’s always my fault.” She puts a hand to her head, and he wonders if she takes care not to upset the blonde curls, or if it’s just her unconscious nature toward self-preservation. “You’re a bastard,” she says, and it’s the gentlest thing she’s said to him all morning.

 

Maybe all week.

 

Gold sighs, “A bastard with a train to catch, as it were.”

 

Mathilde Gold says nothing, stepping demurely out of the car, her well-dressed, war hero husband following a moment later. Ever the picture of a high-class couple, he escorts her up the stairs, a hand at the small of her back, opens the door for her. They both nod to any they pass; neither smile.

 

Once inside, he finds that Dover has already deposited his luggage on board, though his little spat with Mal has drained most of any time to spare. He hugs Bay goodbye, taking care not to knock into his son’s cane—blatantly ignoring the stares of those unused to seeing a cripple. His wife kisses his cheek routinely, biding him a safe trip.

 

Francis Gold boards the train, and though it is not in his nature to be so sentimental, he lifts his hand out the window as the train begins to pick up the pace, the closest he could bring himself to a farewell wave, nodding to the grim faces in the cloudy, mid-morning fog.

 

After they and then the station fall away in the background, he sits down to finish the rest of his _Tribune_ ; the train moves south.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partially inspired by Marguerite Duras' L'amant.

Francis Gold arrives in St. Louis early the next day, entering the grand hall, with its Romanesque revival arches and gargantuan, glass chandelier, and for a man with little to smile about, his lips quirk upward. No matter how many times he passes through the Midwestern hub, he always enjoys the stop, finding it a classical oasis in the otherwise drab region.

 

Business often brought him through St. Louis. Much as he hated to admit the fact, he had to give it to his harpy of a wife, when Mal had said he was always gone, she’d not been incorrect: business was his life—and shipping was his business.

 

He’d not started in shipping—oh, no. No, Francis Gold had started out the bastard son of a mercer by one of his seamstresses (poor, pretty woman had died before he’d lost his first tooth, and after her death, he’d become something of a pet his mother’s coworkers), but he’d taken a liking to the young child and given him plenty of work about the clothier house. When the old bastard had died unexpectedly, Francis had suddenly found himself the heir to the business.

 

It had been small, but large enough to ensure he’d always be a step or two above the poorhouse if he just kept his father’s system and his nose down. He hadn’t, of course.

 

Rather, the young man had completely changed the business structure, for all his shortcomings, he’d known something about the nature of manufacturing, running around the streets with other whelps, he’d seen enough to know that factories where were the money was, at least for those at the top. He shifted the emphasis from individual design and dressing to high-end textile manufacturing and shipping. He took advantage of the ports in Edinburgh, and worked to keep a high standard of quality. Quickly, he acquired a few other smaller, rival houses, and bought a few of his own ships, sick of paying the middle man for shipping costs to rest the lower half of the isles. In the span of less than a decade, he’d turned his father’s niche business into something of youthful and vast enterprise.

 

True, he’d succeeded in large part for his headstrong (brash, some said) decision-making, coupled with a complete lack of fear—-after all what did he have to lose as a youth who had known poverty and lacked the fear of returning to it---and more than a little luck (more than his fair share, he sometimes wonders looking back now).

 

The war changed everything, after which he knew the taste of fear.

 

He moved stateside to put distance between himself and that fear. He met and married Mathilde in that haze of post-war euphoria, and in large part, in an attempt to bite his thumb at that gnawing fear, and for a time it worked. He put the emphasis of his business into shipping, and by the time they welcomed their son, it seemed he’d girded them fully from the fear that had chased him across an ocean, ensconced in a mansion (and when they tired of the country homes, they had suites in cities across the coast, from New York to Boston, all the way down to New Orleans), his business ventures stretched from the British Isles and as far as distant, spiced India and Japan.

 

Just when he thought the most to fear in his life was one of Mal’s tirades before his morning coffee, he relearned terror all over again in the striking down of his son with polio. Then, truly then, did Francis Gold know fear, and this was a fear from which he could not run. This fear he only kept at bay by making money to keep his son breathing and all of them eating.

 

That’s why he left on business so often, as well as why he continued to live with his bitch wife, whom he could hardly stand on the best of days, why he continued to work with a hot head, loose cannon like Zosowlski, why he continued to run illicit alcohol on his ships (though the business of bootlegging and rum-running was getting riskier by the day, but in times like these, people needed to drink and would pay high price to do so). It was why he was missing his son growing up…

 

But for the moment, they had money and a comfortable life. Bay had his doctors and Mal had her checkbook. The rest he’d sort as he came across it.

 

The clock begins to strike ten, and Gold looks up to the gilded timepiece. He matches the time to his gold-plated pocket watch; both are correct, and he finds himself to be right on schedule, if not even a little early. He decides he has enough time enough for a morning cup of coffee and works his way through the throng of people to a little café in the back of the station.

 

As he walks, he takes note of the red dust lightly coating every surface in the place—the infamous dust storms reached even northern Chicago on rare occasion, but usually, the happening are simply another dreary headline to read. He takes extra care to watch his step. The last thing he needed was to fall and break his neck because of a little dirt on the marble floor. 

 

The classical architecture comforts him, as much as can be, and were it not for his shabby appearance he’d stroll through the station as if he owned it, but after his first stop late yesterday, to look over one of his docks along the Mississippi river, he’d arrived via night train, feeling worse for the wear. Though the ride had been passed comfortably enough, Gold imagines himself in great need of a shave. He probably looks rather wolfish and out of place in the fine hall, but a strong cup of coffee would take the edge off and he’d manage until he could freshen up after his arrival in Mida later that afternoon. Once there, he could change into some fresh clothes, shave, and oil his hair, cutting a fine enough figure, before hitting the road to assess the situation of his wife’s new land holdings.

 

He works his way through the throng of people milling about, bags and travel things between them, some more worse for the wear than others. Beside the little café he approaches for the coffee, a youngster stands next to a stack of papers, yelling out the day’s headlines.

 

“Extra, extra, read all about it.” A young boy cries out, waving around a rolled up newspaper. “Babe Ruth at spring training and thinks he’ll get on with McCarthy just fine. Read all about it.”

 

Francis Gold imagines this will be the last time he’ll have access to relatively recent editorials and business figures until he leaves his distant relations hometown—Storybrooke, he recalls the patch of no-man’s-land’s quaint name—might as well purchase more reading material while he still had access to it. He scratches at the night’s growth on his face, addressing the young newsie, puling his leather wallet from his jacket pocket, “Copy of _Wall Street Journal_ , son.”

 

“Sorry, mister, just sold the last of ‘em, but I got the _St. Louis Herald_ for ya—just as good.”

 

Gold’s hand pauses, wallet mid-spread. “You can’t be serious.”

 

“Fresh out, mister,” he answers again, but the ‘er’ on the last word comes out more a soft ‘ah’ sound; the Scottish expatriate frowns, he’d never had much of a taste for these Midwestern tones. “Sold it to some skirt ‘bout half an hour ago.”

 

That gives the man pauses, “A woman?”

 

“Yeah, bought a man’s newspaper, and was wearin’ a man’s hat, can you imagine that?” The boy shakes his head, “Ain’t seen nothing like it.”

 

After having a son with polio, Gold could imagine quite a lot, but does not tell the boy this, instead shaking his head, “Fine, give me _The Times_ —you do have _The Times_?” he asks with condescension.

 

“Sure thing.” He passes the stack of broadsheets up to the businessman. “Ten cents.”

 

His eyebrows shoot up, “You’re joking.”

 

“’Fraid not.”

 

Gold scowls, but passes the boy the dime, not tipping. After, he quickly enters the little café, ordering a cup of coffee, black (for not half the paper, no less), and a cup which becomes two, and first few pages of headlines of tragedies, he finds his own situation a touch less hopeless, and with a bit more energy, he makes for the distant platform.

 

He’d be taking the train toward the Missouri border with Iowa. He’d get off in Mida, what he presumed to be little more than a railroad town, after he’d take a car, which had been arranged by a work associate of his, and drive the forty miles to Storybrooke.

 

It pleases him to have gotten a spot aboard—though first class certainly had not been filling up these days—for he and Mal had only just gotten word of the death of the relation and they’d scrambled to make the arrangements to the obscure little place. The next train wasn’t until that afternoon, and he would much prefer to arrive before nightfall. Oddly enough, he looked forward to the drive, no matter what his wife said, he drove often and well enough as any man—better even—and took great pleasure in Sunday strolls in one of his prize automobiles.

 

After descending the staircase to the platform, first-class ticket in hand, he’s pleased to see smaller train waiting for him, ready to be on his way. Bypassing the lower class cars, he strolls to first class, ready to have the ordeal dealt and done with.

 

“No, that can’t be right.”

 

“I’m sorry, miss, but it’s like I told you—“

 

Gold pauses, hearing the scuffle above the general noise of the train, porters and passengers all around him. He turns back around, and spots a young brunette woman, standing before the door to coach having a discussion with one of the car attendants—a _heated_ discussion.

 

“No! I paid good money for this ticket,” he hears the pretty enough woman say, and he shakes his head, beginning to continue on his way, when he notes she wears a hat, and not just any hat, mind, not those bell-shaped things the women were wearing these days (“ _It’s called a ‘_ cloche _’,” he recalls Mal correcting him, “honestly, Francis, it’s from the French for bell. Don’t you know anything?” His wife had French blood and perfect pronunciation—though he found her vowels stunted—as she liked to remind him,_ often), no, this woman wore a man’s hat, not unlike his own.

 

“And that’s all well and good ma’am, but the ticket’s counterfeit,” The suited attendant says, raising his hands. “I can’t take it.”

 

“No,” She wears her hair down and curled, a little wild, not cut in the day’s short fashion. It sways abruptly as she moves about answering in the start of a frenzy, “that can’t be right.”

 

“Miss, I’m gon’a have to ask you to step aside, and let the other passengers board,’ the man answers, though she blocks no one at the moment.

 

“What am I supposed to do?”

 

“You’ll have to buy a new ticket for the next train.”

 

“The next train,” she shrieks. “So you’re telling me, that not only do I have to pay twice, but I have to pay and wait for the next train?”

 

“That’s right ma’am.”

 

She sighs, rubbing a gloved hand over her eyes. “And when is the next train exactly?” she asks, strained and attempting to keep her emotions in check.

 

“Same time tomorr’ah, miss.”

 

“Tomorrow?” She says, and it’s suddenly obvious that she’s on the brink of tears. “I can’t wait that long--I’ve no place to go.”

 

“Is there a problem?” Gold asks, and the words surprise both the brunette woman in the man’s hat—a fedora in beige, to match her, on close inspection rather shabby, suit, with a wide, black ribbon round it—and the worker, as well as Gold himself.

 

The attendant answers (the woman stands, mouth open, in surprise—nice shape, full lips and not all covered in that heavy rouge women liked so much). “The missus here, well, she’s got a fake ticket.” He points to the ticket in the woman’s gloved hand--clenched, Gold notes. “Can’t let’er on.”

 

“Is that so?”  Extending a hand, he gestures for her to hand over the ticket. Blinking in surprise, she passes him the ticket. He brings it up to his face for closer inspection. After a few moments, reading it and turning it over in hand, he asks her (and he does not remember coming to stand next to her, the woman in the man’s hat, but there he stands), “You buy this from a ticket tout?”

 

“A—a what?” she asks, and there’s a lovely little lilt to her voice. He’d never liked the tones of the Midwest, but on her, it had a certain charm.

 

But then, she’s staring, she and the attendant both, and Gold scrambles for the proper, _American_ , term. “A ticket touter—a--a scalper.” He snaps twice before it comes to him, “Did you buy this from a scalper dearie?”

 

“Oh,” she says animated, finally taking his meaning, but then her expression completely turns around, “No, _no_.” She turns back to the man in uniform, “My friend sent it to me.”

 

“Ah,” Gold says, and though he recognizes it as a fake—paper being too thin for to be the real deal. Work in textiles and you begin to recognize that type of thing—all the same, he says, “Appears real enough to me.”

 

“Yeah, and who might you be?” the attendant smarts.

 

Gold frowns at the fact that this blue-collar dared question him, he pulls his fine watch from his pocket, “Simply a concerned passenger, one, I might add, who doesn’t want to miss his train.”

 

Both watchers take the impressive accessory in, as well as the man himself. “Well I can’t let her on.”

 

“Of course you can’t,” he answers, in measured tones, and adds, “I’d like to speak to your superior, if you please.” Gold had a friend with Alton Rail who owed him a favor.

 

The attendant’s eyes widen dangerously—in these times, any problem could be cause for dismissal, and Gold knows that. “I’m sure, sir, that something can be worked out.”

 

Perhaps calling in that favor would not be necessary after all. “Well, if you think a solution can be found,” the businessman says, feigning surprise, “by all means.”

 

“Clearly, this is all a simple mistake.”

 

“Clearly,” he says, giving the woman a conspiratorial smirk.

 

“But I still can’t let her on the train.”

 

“You what?” Gold asks, sharp.

 

“It’s full sir, maximum capacity,” he turns to the woman, “I can get you a ticket to this afternoon’s train, but nothing for this mornin’.”

 

The woman in the man’s hat begins to nod, when Gold asks, “Remind me, what time exactly is the train this afternoon.”

 

“Quarter past one, sir.”

 

“Fine,” he clips and pulling out his billfold, he passes a few of bills to the conductor, “The new ticket, first class, see to it.” The conductor looks between the two questioningly, but Gold bites, “before the train begins to move, if you please.”

 

“Yes, right away, sir.” The man scurries away, leaving them in silence, discounting the train’s hissing.

 

“I—thank you,” she says after a few moments, and it’s more a question than an answer, “but I couldn’t possibly have you buy my ticket.”

 

“I’m not, dearie,” he says, exchanging his billfold for his cigarette case. He lights up before adding, “I’m buying mine.” He extends the case, but she shakes her head, declining. As she stares at him, wide-eyed, he snaps it shut and returns it to his jacket. He takes a slow drag before extending his own ticket toward her.

 

She has blue eyes, he notes (but he can’t place what number dye they are).

 

“Oh, no,” the girl says. “I couldn’t,” she tells him, backing away.

 

“You already have,” he answers, flippantly. “Besides, this isn’t something for nothing.”

 

“Excuse me?” she asks, and it’s as much a question as the angry ones she’d posed to the attendant.

 

“No,” he shakes his head, “my price,” he tells her, smirking, as he holds up the ticket, “is your paper.”

 

“My _what_?”

 

“Your newspaper, dearie,” he points to the bag at her feet, where the rolled up papers sticks out. “ _Wall Street Journal_ , you purchased the last one it would seem, and what else am I supposed to do for the next four hours while I wait, hm?”

 

“Oh, right, of course,” she says, tucking a stray brown hair behind her ear. She bends down, knees still primly covered by her fraying, dirt-colored skirt, and unsnaps the clasps on her only piece of luggage, to free the paper.

 

As she pulls the newspaper from her bag, he spots a heavy tome, _The Age of Innocence,_ he reads the title, and Gold recognizes the scandalized authoress. He opens his mouth to comment, but she stands, her face instantly becoming visible from where it had disappeared behind the man’s fedora. She passes the newspaper over reluctantly, if not sheepishly, “I think this is hardly a fair trade.

 

“True, but it’s rather one I find myself willing to make, in any case.”

 

“And why is that?” She asks, light, teasing, but he can see she’s truly curious, beneath the happy veneer.

 

She’s given up the fight, allowed him to do this thing for her, and he’s glad of it, strangely enough. “Because I’m a fan of beauty, m’dear,

 

“Beauty?” she asks, a laugh in her voice, and he wonders if she sings—most pretty young things did these days. “You think I’m beautiful?”

 

“Very,” he says, as he spots the attendant past the brim of her fedora, running toward them, “and I’d hate to see a beautiful woman cry if it was in my power to prevent it.” He neglects to mention how often he makes a very beautiful woman cry (and she him, no less) without even leaving his own front porch. “My ticket, as it were,” he points to the huffing man in uniform approaching.

 

“Here you are sir, first class for the Alton quarter after one, sir,” he pants.

 

Gold accepts the ticket, “Thank you, now I assume you’ll be seeing Miss—“ he prompts, glancing to the woman in her man’s hat.

 

“French.”

 

“Miss French to her seat personally, will you not?”

 

The worker’s eyes widen, but he replies, “Of course, sir.” He moves to enter the train, with the woman—Miss French—turning to follow, when Gold adds, “and see to her bag.”

 

The attendant pauses, sighs, but accepts the piece of luggage, entering the train, which whistles. At the top of the stairs, he turns back, saying, “Come on, then.”

 

The woman hurries to follow, but pauses to tell Gold, “I can’t thank you enough.”

 

“It’s no matter, dearie,” he answers, and as she steps up into the train car, he tips his hat to her, “my pleasure in fact.”

 

She smiles, and leaves—not a moment too soon either, for as he returns to the hall to pass the time, he hears the train whistle and the wheels begin to chug. As he moves the opposite direction of traffic, rather self-satisfied, despite the now half a day’s set back he’d have to endure, he can’t help but wonder just exactly what had possessed him to help the woman, to do such a foolish thing. He was certainly not one prone to charity, but in the moment it had seemed instinctual, but then he’d always had a bit of a soft spot for brunettes, the Lillian Gish type, soft features and expressive eyes—how he had ended up married to a shrill blonde, he hadn’t the vaguest.

 

And that Irish O’Sullivan girl, Mary or Maureen or something. That was his type (though neither woman had such strikingly colored eyes as the woman in the man’s hat).

 

In the next few hours, Gold gets a shave and a shoe shine, reads his paper, learning what new lows to which the American economy had stooped today over a light lunch, and when he boards the quarter to one, he realizes he didn’t even ask her first name. 


End file.
